The Rattlesnake
Coiled like a clod, his eyes the home of hate, Where rich the harvest bows, he lies in wait, Linking earth's death and music, mate with mate. Is 't lure, or warning? Those small bells may sing Like Ariel sirens, poised on viewless wing, To lead stark life where mailed death is king; Else nature's voice, in that cold, earthy thrill, Bids good avoid the venomed fang of ill, And life and death fight equal in her will.
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"Coiled like a clod, his eyes the home of hate,..."
"The Rattlesnake" is a quintessential example of John Charles McNeill's signature style... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...